


Let Me Stand Next To Your Fire

by zoemathemata



Series: The Education of Mr. Stilinksi [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, M/M, Student Stiles, Teacher Derek, Teacher-Student Relationship, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:59:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4531635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoemathemata/pseuds/zoemathemata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuation of The Education of Mr. Stilinski - Teacher Derek Hale will probably end up in hell for his fixation on Stiles Stilinski and it will be so fucking worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Stand Next To Your Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mezzo_cammin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mezzo_cammin/gifts).



Derek watches the sheriff’s cruiser pull up the long drive. The sun is bright on the windshield and he can’t make out either occupant, but he supposes it doesn’t matter. He knows it’s Stiles and the sheriff. The cruiser finally comes to a stop in front of his house and Derek lopes down the steps. Stiles gets out of the car, backpack slung over one shoulder, and slams the door shut too hard, making the sheriff wince.

“Stiles!” the sheriff commands. 

Stiles doesn’t turn around, only scowls and heads up the stairs into Derek’s house, not looking up at Derek. He’s laying it on a little thick in Derek’s opinion. 

The sheriff sighs the long and suffering sigh of a tired parent. “He’s got a chip on his shoulder, these days.”

Derek half-snorts. “Don’t they all at that age?”

The sheriff huffs a bit in laughter. “True enough. God help me for saying this, but I actually hoped more of Scott would rub off on him. He’s so….” the sheriff waves his hand, probably trying to be indicative of Scott’s even-tempered, wholesome nature. 

Derek doesn’t have the heart to tell the Sheriff that Scott’s a bit of a stoner. He’s a good kid and getting to be a better student (working hard now that he’s got his mind set on vet school) but still easily distracted by girls with long hair, dark eyes and dimples. Since he doesn't want to disillusion the Sheriff, he keeps that information to himself and only nods. The sheriff doesn’t seem to need any verbal response to continue. 

“Anyhow, thanks for this. He and that Whittmore kid keep getting into fisticuffs and it doesn’t seem matter how much I talk to him about it. And Whittmore’s dad is…”

“An asshole,” Derek finishes and the sheriff laughs this time. 

“You know, I didn’t want to say it, but yeah. Yeah, he is. I know Jackson got some good hits in but Stiles clocked Whittmore right in the eye and gave him a hell of a bruise. His dad wanted to press charges but I managed to talk him out of it. This time. Jackson’s either not as good of a hitter, or he’s been smarter about where he’s bruising Stiles. And Stiles won’t tell me.”

Derek also won’t say it out loud, but it really is that Jackson’s not as good of a hitter. Stiles has some bruises, under his clothes, but nothing like the shiner Stiles put on Jackson’s face. Of course, he can’t say that without there being questions about how he knows about the bruises on Stiles’ body - bruises even his dad hasn’t seen. 

“Well, I know regular detention just doesn’t work with a kid like him, so thanks for coming up with this solution. Him working at your house keeps him and Whittmore apart from each other and Stiles seems… more relaxed when he comes home. Tired out.”

“Sometimes a physical release is the best kind.” Jesus, sometimes Derek can’t believe the shit that comes out of his own mouth. Did he just say that?

“Especially for a kid like Stiles who’s in his brain all the time. The things that go through that kid’s head… Do you know what I found on his computer?” the sheriff asks and Derek goes still like an impala on the Serengeti, afraid of what the Sheriff will say next. “The mating habits of the blue footed booby,” the sheriff continues, ignorant of Derek’s sudden release of tension. “Why on earth would he be looking at that? How is that remotely related to any of his studies?”

The sheriff is shaking his head and staring off into the forest. Derek lets his rhetoric question hang in the air. 

“So, thanks for this.”

“Not a problem,” Derek replies.

“Really, I appreciate it.” 

The sheriff gives him a significant look and then reaches out and claps Derek on the shoulder. Derek tries not to squirm under the man’s gaze. 

“I’ve taken his cell as part of his punishment, so let me know when you’re done with him and I’ll come get him.”

Derek’s going to hell for sure.

He waits on the porch, watching the cruiser take the long journey back down the somewhat winding road and then stays put until it’s completely out of sight. Even then, he waits two more minutes before finally heading back into the house. Stiles’ kicked off his shoes close to the front door, and Derek takes a moment to stare at them, noting how they look - beat up sneakers contrasted against Derek’s loafers - before heading up the stairs to his bedroom. He stops short at the sight that greets him from his open bedroom door. Stiles is already naked, spread out on Derek’s bed, contorted slightly as he fingers himself open with one hand while lazily jerking himself off with another. Derek can feel his blood starting to pool in his dick, already getting slightly hard from the sight. Stiles makes eye contact with him and holds it, mischief in his eyes. 

“Did you even wait for him to get down the driveway?” Derek asks, stepping into his bedroom and undoing his belt. 

“I didn’t even wait for him to get in the car. I was already naked, in your bed, while you were still talking on the porch. Mr. Hale.”

Jesus, that shouldn’t give Derek a thrill but it does - both the idea of Stiles already naked in his bed, but also how Stiles’ says his name. _Mr. Hale._ It’s illegal, what he’s doing with Stiles. Illegal, immoral, indecent… and if he had any blood to spare for his brain, he could probably come up with a dozen more words, but he doesn’t. Not when Stiles is acres of pale, long limbs, stretched out on Derek’s bed. Derek undoes his jeans, pushes them down over his hips, catching his underwear as well, and then kicks all of it off, watching Stiles’ eyes as he does. Stiles’ eyes follow Derek’s hands as they move down over his hips and then cross over his body as he takes his shirt off. Stiles’ hands have stilled, as if he can’t be bothered to focus on fingering himself or jacking himself off while watching Derek disrobe. 

Derek kneels on the edge of the bed as Stiles stretches out. 

“Does that make you hot? Thinking about me in your bed getting myself ready for you?”

“Yes,” Derek says easily, caging Stiles’ body with his own, hands on either side of Stiles’ head. Stiles smirks and Derek takes a moment to rake his gaze over Stiles, eyes slowing down when he gets to the darkening shadow of a bruise on Stiles’ sternum. He reaches out with one hand and touches it lightly. 

“Fucking Whittmore,” Stiles breathes. “Sucker punched me in the solar plexus.”

Derek’s fingers trace the edges of the mark, an irregular shape on Stiles’ fair skin. It must have hurt - must have knocked the air out of Stiles. Derek wasn’t there for the fight. He was in his office grading papers when Finstock had yanked the door open and tossed Stiles in declaring that Derek had to deal with ‘this miscreant while I deal with the prissy one.’ Finstock had left mumbling about testosterone blockers and duels with nerf balls and nothing else that made sense. Jackson and Stiles are like oil and water - if oil and water got into constant fights and continually kept getting detention. There are multiple problems with the two of them, the biggest two being Jackson’s inability to keep his mouth shut and thinking his dad’s money and power mean he can get away with anything, coupled with Stiles’ innate need to put people in their place and his huge brain which can slice through Jackson’s ego like butter and find the softest, most delicate spot and then cut. It keeps ending in physical violence. 

“You should let him talk. He’ll burn out fast enough.”

Stiles snorts, hands trailing up Derek’s side, his long fingers running over Derek’s ribs, pressing in slightly at each indentation between his ribs. Derek wants to curl toward each press of fingertip, but his ribs won’t splay and spread that way. 

“But then how would I keep ending up with detention and then get to spend all this time with you? Besides, Jackson Whittmore is a dick. He’s worse than a dick. He’s a dick with money and a pretty face. And actually, his face is prettier than his dick which, if you’ve seen his dick, isn’t that hard.”

“Can we not talk about Jackson Whittmore and his dick?” Derek asked flatly, dropping his hips against Stiles, feeling the length of Stiles, hot and hard against him. Stiles sighs happily and then smirks. 

“You sure?” His eyes are bright and mischievous. “I mean, maybe you’d like me to talk about it more. Jackson Whittmore’s fetching face and ugly dick.”

Derek rolls his hips and Stiles gasps, arching beneath him, eyes fluttering shut so prettily, his long lashes dark against his cheeks. 

“Okay,” Stiles breathes, “you win.”

Derek finds the lube that Stiles was using, discarded carelessly on the bed and reaches for it with one hand even as Stiles wraps a leg around his waist. 

“I’m good, I’m ready,” Stiles says, voice low and throaty, reaching out and stilling Derek’s hand. How is it he can be barely a slip of a man but have that voice? And those arms, Derek thinks, eyes following the length of Stiles’ fingers, up his hands and then his forearms. He’s growing into pieces of himself - parts of him already the man he’ll become but other parts, like his baby face and his doe eyes, still so young. 

“You’re not ready,” Derek murmurs, snagging the lube and trying to open it with one hand. “You just got here.”

Stiles arches his back, pushing his hips against Derek’s. “I already jerked off twice in the shower today, stretching myself, thinking of you. I’m good. Come on, fuck me, Mr. Hale.”

Derek’s unable to stop the low, long drawn out groan from escaping his throat. Stiles will be the death of him. Derek’s brain is immediately filled with the image of Stiles, naked and wet in his shower, mouth open and eyes fluttering as he jerks himself off, stretching himself, knowing he was coming over, coming to Derek’s.

He manages to get some lube on his fingers and then reaches down between them, pressing against Stiles’ hole. It makes Stiles gasp and squirm, and Derek’s easily able to slip in two fingers with no problem. 

“See?” Stiles breathes. “C’mon.” He grabs at Derek’s shoulders, gets his other leg around Derek’s waist, using all of his body to entice Derek closer, coax Derek into fucking him, as if Derek needed any further persuasion. Derek lines up and presses into Stiles in a long, continuous push. He watches Stiles’ face as his mouth falls open, his eyelashes blink, his chest heaves and he sighs. 

Most people like sex, but Stiles _luxuriates_ in it, savoring getting fucked. As Derek starts thrusting in and out of him, Stiles stretches out, legs and arms reaching far, back arching, neck exposed, his skin tight over his Adam's apple and throat. Stiles sighs and moans into it, like a sumptuous morning stretch, or a decadent mouthful of food and Derek can’t take his eyes off him. Derek mouths at Stiles’ skin, revels in the heat of Stiles’, the tightness of him stretched around Derek’s cock, the way Stiles’ fingers twitch and jerk until Stiles presses them against Derek’s headboard, using them as a bit of leverage to push himself back into Derek, forcing Derek deeper. 

“Oh, fuck, please, please,” Stiles pants and Derek will give him anything he asks for. He fucks into Stiles harder, sharper, the force of it moving Stiles up the bed slightly. “Fuck, Der, please.”

Stiles likes to call him Mr. Hale, both because he knows what it does to Derek, but also because he says it helps him remember to keep calling him that in class. Derek always knows when Stiles is getting lost in getting fucked - when he forgets and starts calling Derek by his first name. He loves that too - knowing that Stiles is losing his higher brain function because Derek is legitimately fucking his brains out. 

He should feel worse for his relationship with Stiles, and maybe he would if Stiles wasn’t so fucking smart. Maybe Derek would be able to stop if he thought he was really taking advantage of Stiles, if he thought Stiles didn’t know exactly what they were doing. But Stiles is _so_ fucking smart. Stiles knows he’s smart - it’s in the way he carries himself, they way he’s confident in mouthing off at Whittmore, the way he works on his tests and papers, the ideas that he comes up with. But Derek wonders if he knows exactly how smart. Most kinds haven’t seen their own IQ tests, unless they take them online, or finagle the results out of an unsuspecting teacher. Derek’s seen Stiles’ test scores, buried in his files from elementary school, notes from former teachers, recommendations for advanced placement. Stiles is finally growing into not only his body, but his brain, and Derek just wants to stay as close to the fucking supernova that he is as he can. 

Stiles reaches for his dick with one hand and Derek catches it and traps it above Stiles’ head, pressing it into the mattress before capturing Stiles’ other hand and doing the same. Stiles whines, even as Derek continues to fuck him. 

“I can’t,” he breathes, “I can’t, I already came twice today. I need… ugh, I can’t-”

Derek slips his tongue in between Stiles’ lips, licking into his mouth. Stiles’ opens his lips up wider and Derek pushes his tongue in deeper, getting into every part of Stiles that he can. 

“You can, come on.” He nips at Stiles’ lips and Stiles makes another whining sound that just eggs Derek on more. He knows he’s hitting Stiles’ prostate relentlessly, watching Stiles twitch and jerk as he does, making these little needy sounds that Derek can’t get enough of. 

“Der, please.” Stiles’ bites at his own lip, teeth digging into the soft, pink flesh of his mouth. 

Derek keeps fucking him, holding Stiles’ hands above his head, biting at Stiles’ skin, careful to keep to all the places Stiles will be covered by clothes - his shoulders, his clavicle, the little bit of skin Derek can get with his teeth on Stiles’ lean chest. He licks up Stiles’ neck, feeling the barest hint of stubble starting there, just a promise of Stiles’ getting older, filling into the man he’s going to become. 

“No, I can’t,” Stiles pants, breath hitching. He’s squirming deliciously underneath Derek, his dick leaking precome against his own stomach and Derek’s - trying to use the motion of his writhing to get some friction. 

Derek runs his tongue over the delicate shell of Stiles’ ear and then pauses, breathing harshly into Stiles. 

“If you’re a good boy and come untouched, I’ll let you fuck me next.”

Stiles makes this high keening sound, his back arching, his hips pushing up hard and then he’s coming, spurting between them, hot and sticky. Derek fucks him through it, long, deep, almost punishing thrusts until Stiles is limp and languid beneath him, relaxing back into the mattress and staring up at Derek with half-lidded eyes. He looks completely fucked out and Derek loves him like this - loose limbed and slack, his lithe body flexible and pliable. He curls his legs loosely around Derek again, pressing into Derek’s ass with his heels a bit - permission for Derek to keep fucking him. And Derek does. He loves to fuck into Stiles after he’s come, loves to feel Stiles body hot and somewhat sluggish beneath him, loves to see the dazed, come-dumb expression on Stiles’ face. Derek chases his own orgasm, trying not to hit Stiles’ prostate too much, knowing how sensitive it can be. He still hits it a few times if the way Stiles jerks and shivers is any indication and then Derek’s coming, driving deep into Stiles, feeling Stiles clench around him, watching Stiles bite his lip again as he wallows in the pleasure of getting fucked. 

It’s the kind of orgasm that makes him sad when it’s over - intense and deep, leaving him feeling emptied out and hollow. He noses at Stiles’ temple, feeling Stiles’ fingers tracing a random pattern on the side of his hip. Reluctantly, he finally eases out of Stiles, careful and slow. Stiles sighs, stretching his arms above his head fully, looking like a cat waking up from a nap in the sun. Derek pushes himself out of bed and pads to the bathroom, bringing back a washcloth, carefully and meticulously cleaning them both up as Stiles continues to watch him with half-open, dark eyes. He pitches the washcloth in the vicinity of the laundry basket, hoping it made it in, but not feeling like checking. He collapses back onto the bed facedown, beside Stiles, turning his face toward him. Stiles tips his head a bit to stare back at him. 

“Did you mean it? What you said?”

Derek frowns, not sure which conversation Stiles is continuing. He’s tired and feeling like liquid - happy to sink into the mattress with Stiles’ warm weight next to him. 

Stiles flicks him, his long fingers hitting Derek soundly in the middle of the forehead. “About… about me fucking you.”

Stiles looks a little hesitant and shy, if such a word can ever be attributed to him. Derek snakes out an arm, resting it over Stiles’ lithe waist and tugging him a bit closer. 

“Yeah, I meant it. If you want.”

“Oh, I want, I want a lot. A whole buttload of want right here.” Stiles gestures down his naked torso, wiggling a bit. “Or a dickload, I guess.”

Derek snorts into the pillow, eyes drifting shut. They really will have to work on the deck at some point, not only for the cover story, but also because Derek’s deck is half-finished and if he walks out his back door at the moment, he’ll likely break a leg. But right now, he just wants to steep in the feeling of having Stiles close, of being able to run his fingers over the jut of Stiles’ hip, of being able to touch Stiles without worrying if someone is watching, if someone will see. Stiles slumps into Derek’s side, lifting his leg and then dropping it overtop of both of Derek’s, possessive and proprietary. 

On the edge of unconsciousness, he finds himself blurting, “You don’t have to.”

“Huh?” Stiles’ voice sounds just as dopey and dreamy as Derek’s. Derek feels Stiles stir a bit, his leg twitches. 

“Get detention to come over. You don’t have to. You can just… come over. Whenever you like.”

There’s a long pause, so long that Derek fears either he misspoke or that Stiles fell asleep, but then he hears Stiles’ voice, soft and low. 

“Yeah. Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Again for mezzo_cammin who got ANOTHER Promotion! YOU ARE A GEM AND DESERVE ALL WONDERFUL THINGS, BB, LIKE PORNY STEREK.


End file.
